a sketch book

and he painted lots of scenes
of boobs and an absolute ass
both of the lowest and the higher class
past midnight
up until three
in their faces i was catching a glimpse of you
and one of me
passing by
and passing through
when he had a period of red
and one of darkest blue
coveting the young girls,
their bohemian faces,
one with unconventional blond curls,
inviting pubic hairs and satin laces,
looking for a heart
inside the roving Russian ballet
i saw where he wanted to go
tip toe...tip toe...
but was surprised when i heard him say,
"i can't speak French but i can paint!"
he hated phoniness and death
but could never be called a saint,
for on the gallery floor
he had admirers and many more
who stepped aside under his intense gaze
and cigarette smoke
which curled his confident lips.
i saw him check out your small hips
but you assured me he was a harmless flirt;
he then wore a loose bandana
made from your favorite skirt.
and he painted lots of scenes
of boobs and an absolute ass
both of the lowest and the higher class
past midnight
up until three
he kept a sketch book filled with images
of his unfolding destiny,
partly out of neglect for the memory of you
and me.